


Wishful Thinking

by primalrageanddumbassery



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Caboose doesn't hate Tucker, Caboose is the best, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grif got back into society instead of going crazy, Grif is a closeted gay disaster, Grif is a dumbass, Grif works at a fast food place, Grimmons au, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I cannot promise that anything that happens in season 15 actually happens, I don't know if imma do violence so just put it anyways, Junior probably, Lavernius Tucker is just my favorite in this fic, Lavernius Tucker is the best dad, M/M, Maybe some Docnut if you squint, RvB Season 15, Simmons is a gay disaster, Tucker's nickname is Vern, Tuckington is just a thing in the background, Vern and Wash are Caboose's dads, Vern and Wash are just Junior's dads, Very Grimmons centered, Wash gets no freakin sleep, Wash is good dad!, angsty, canon-typical cussing, d a d s, fluff only, listen grimmons is canon okay, while tagging I just decided to stan Tucker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22631749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primalrageanddumbassery/pseuds/primalrageanddumbassery
Summary: During season 15. SPOILER ALERT (duh..) Grif went off on his own. He's ready to leave his past behind, start over with a new apartment and get whatever dead-end job he can. Simmons is left behind. He's ready to have a mental breakdown because his only friend abandoned him. Weeks pass and the two start to realize just how much they need each other not only for laughs, but for sanity.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Franklin Delano Donut/Frank "Doc" DuFresne, Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	1. Grif's 1st Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif is in denial about missing Simmons. This is wildly self indulgent, guys, you have no idea

Dexter ran a hand through his messy brown hair, consequently loosening the small ponytail at the nape of his neck. With the other hand, he death gripped a slightly rusted key ring with a single key dangling from it.

"This is the key to your apartment. You lose it, you pay for another," rang the stern, if slightly pissed off voice of the landlady in his head. He swung the ring around his finger as he made his way down the hallway, scanning the apartment numbers. 271, 273, 275…

"There we are, 277," he said under his breath. There was the tiniest spark of excitement that, try as he might, he couldn't stifle at the thought of his new place, as if just by being here he was getting a fresh start on life. Deep down he knew it was bullshit. He knew he was going to settle into his place and be as much of a lazy SOB as he was everywhere else he'd ever lived. He knew he wouldn't change but the unfiltered hope was a tiny ice cube in his chest; not exactly comfortable, but not totally unwanted either. Grif slid the key into the hole (bow-chicka-bow-wow, he thought wryly) and twisted the knob open. The apartment was shitty, there was no sugarcoating this one. Even sloppy, messy Dexter could see that. A small bed in the corner next to a night stand barely big enough to hold the lamp on it. A rickety desk sat next to the door with a simple wooden chair.

It's a roof over your head, he thought with a shrug. And it's far, far away from the Reds and Blues. He sighed. This alone was enough to make the small abode that much more appealing. There was a little twinge of sadness there too, and he hated it. He wanted to be wholeheartedly ready to leave his past behind, get a shitty job and forget that he ever knew Simmons or Sarge or Lopez or Donut or Tucker or Caboose or Carolina or Wash or that stupid bastard Church who wouldn't stay dead. He wanted to be glad they were out of his life for good, but there was a tiny voice in the back of his head that sounded like Simmons asking him if he'd really done the right choice by leaving.

"Does it matter?" he asked the empty apartment cagily, "I'm gone now!"

You can always go back, Grif, Simmons' voice chimes. Grif hmphed in reply. That voice was annoying.

Deep down, though, a small part of him was glad to hear Simmons.


	2. Simmons' 1st Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angsty chapter, Wash is a good dad, Simmons both misses his asshole best friend and hates him. Also Tucker and Wash are just a domesticated gay couple and nobody says anything about it anymore. They're just two dads, what would anyone be weirded out or confused about?  
> *sobs* LAVERNIUS TUCKER'S NICKNAME IS VERN

"Oh, for God's sake, somebody shut him up!" Tucker cried from his tent. It was the dead of night one Friday and Richard Simmons was yelling in his sleep. It was the thirstiest shit Lavernius Tucker had ever heard in his life, which was saying something because Vern had heard Donut and Doc have a conversation.  
"Come back, Grif! No! NO!" Wash finally sighed in the sleeping bag next to him.  
"I got him," he told Tucker, planting a quick kiss on his forehead. "You go back to sleep." Tucker grinned sleepily.  
"Have I ever told you that you are my favorite old man ever? Of all time?" Wash sighed in exasperation.  
"I'm 39, Tucker. I am not an old man," he said before closing their tent.  
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Tucker yawned. Wash grinned.  
"Up yours, Whippersnapper."

Wash carefully unzipped Simmons' tent. The glow of his armour did little for light except being reflected in the tears crawling down Simmons' freckled right cheek and the metal plating on his left.  
"G-Grif, please, don't go! I need you!" Wash whistled. Damn, it's painful to listen to. He squeezed Dick's flesh arm firmly.  
"Simmons," Wash said just above a whisper. The sleeping man jerked at his touch, trying to pull away subconsciously. Wash shook him.  
"Simmons, wake up," he said, louder this time. The redhead's eyes started to blink open.  
"Grif?" he mumbled. Wash smirked.  
"Not quite, bud." Simmons sat up, rigid.  
"Holy shit, Wash!" He aggressively swiped at his face, cheeks blushing red. Wash let go of Dick's arm, holding up his hands in surrender.  
"Simmons, chill. Are you okay?" Simmons nodded hard, his fiery curls bouncing vigorously.  
"Of course, why wouldn't I be? Everything's fine, all perfect. Just pea-"  
"Simmons." Dick stopped rambling. Wash looked him right in the eyes with genuine concern written on his scarred face. "Are you okay?" Simmons hesitated.  
"It's Grif, right?" Wash added. "I swear I won't judge." Simmons sighed.  
"It's just- I know Grif and I always said we hated each other and all, but he was my best friend. I miss him, Wash. I miss him a lot." Wash stifled a grin. Carolina owed him 20 bucks. He patted Simmons' back sympathetically.  
"I get what it feels like to lose a friend, Simmons," Wash said softly. "I do. It hurts and it's going to for a while. What I've learned, though, is that whenever I miss the friends I've lost, it helps to appreciate the friends I have now." Dick scoffed.  
"What friends? Everyone else here is dumb, scary, mean, or all of the above." Wash laughed.  
"That's fair. Just, you know, think about it. For as much as you get on each other's nerves, I have seen you guys when you get along. You're like family." Simmons stared at the tired ex-freelancer for a moment before giving a reserved nod.  
"I'm guessing you've got a little more on your mind?" Wash observed. The words were barely out of his mouth when Simmons exploded.  
"Christ! 15 years living under the same damn roof, following the same damn orders, sharing a bunk for Pete's sake! 15 years of my life that I could've been living a perfect civilian life as an accountant or something, starting a family at least! But here I was doing absolutely nothing but standing around and talking to some lazy bozo who apparently cared so little about our friendship that he up and freaking left!" It was at that point that the anger was joined by tears. "Just like that, no second guessing or even a sad goodbye! What fucking right does he have not to care? What right does that fat bastard have not to care?" Simmons' voice was just below a scream. Wash grabbed his wrist firmly, a little sign of understanding, but simultaneously a request to calm down. Dick's eyes were wild with more hurt than Wash ever thought the seemingly simple Sim trooper was capable of. It took Wash a moment to find his voice.  
"Look, Simmons? I don't know what to tell you, okay? I really don't." He looked Simmons straight in the eyes.  
"I know it's… unconventional out here. I know the reds and blues and everyone in between can be tough to deal with. You just gotta try your best to get through all the bullshit and at the end of the day…" Wash shrugged. "...hope that's enough." Simmons stared down at his prosthetic left hand, presumably thinking about the real one attached to Grif. Wash put a hand on Simmons' knee. Dick looked up.  
"It does," Wash said slowly. "...get...easier. I promise you that much."  
Richard Simmons had met a lot of people in his lifetime. He'd met good people, bad people, people somewhere in between. People he wouldn't trust to babysit a twig and people he would trust with his life. In the time that Dick Simmons had known Wash, he'd learned a lot of things about the ex-freelancer, and a lot of things had lead him to one conclusion- he could trust Agent Washington. And that right there gave him hope beyond words for the future.  
"Okay," Simmons said softly, wiping the tears from his cheek. "I-I think I'm fine now. Thanks, Wash." Wash nodded.  
"I know it sounds cheesy as all shit, but if you ever need to talk to someone, I'll listen. At reasonable times, of course, but you know what I mean." Simmons grinned.  
"Of course. Now, Wash?"  
"Yeah, Simmons?"  
"Get some sleep. You look like a goddamn zombie." Wash chuckled.  
"Harsh. Sir, yes sir." And with that, Wash zipped up the tent and found his way back into Tucker's arms.


	3. Grif's 2nd Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif works at McDonalds now with a 6 ft. tall hot chick that he has no affection towards whatsoever. What do you expect? He's a rampant homosexual. Grif encounters a Karen and steals her food.

Dexter took a deep breath, looking in the full-body mirror. The man staring back at him was tired, unshaven, obese, and best described as scruffy. The nice polo (which he never would have bought if his mind wasn't on the only polo-wearing cyborg he knew while he was in Target) was futile, like spraying trash with disinfectant, but it was the best he was going to look unless he randomly started giving a shit about his appearance which, if the past 37 years were indicative in any way, was not going to happen.

"Okay, Grif, so working at a fast food place is not exactly the high life," he told the man in the mirror, "but somebody's got to do it. And hey, maybe you can steal some fries when they look away. This is not a bad thing you got going here."

Mirror Grif was not buying it.

Grif grunted.

"Whatever, asshole." He started to walk away, but then he froze.

"Oh, man, talking to myself in the mirror? I have got to go be around people."

Shaking his head, he pulled a jacket over his shoulders, slipped on his tennis shoes (which were starting to dig into his heels because he never untied them), and went out the door, on the way to work for the first time.

"Listen- just don't steal any food and you'll be fine," the shift manager was saying. Grif stifled a giggle. There goes that perk, he thought.

"Right, yeah," he said nonchalantly. The manager nodded.

"Great. You went through the training, you know how the cooking works, now I'm gonna step out for a smoke and you man the shit." Grif didn't know how he felt about "manning the shit", but if it got all that bad grilling burgers and toasting hamburger buns for a bunch of Karens and their snotnosed snowflakes, there was always Deb to lend a hand. Grif had met the other employee, Deb, that morning when he walked in. I mean, it's kind of impossible not to notice when a six-and-a-half-foot woman literally trips over you as you walk in on the first day of work. She was nice enough, and pretty enough too. Her frizzy blond hair was pulled back into an extremely messy bun at the nape of her neck and out of the way of her sharp seafoam-green eyes, set in a lightly tanned face dusted with freckles. If Grif had any romantic interest in the female population, he probably would have been attracted to her. As he didn't give two shits about what a girl looked like at all, ever, he just thought she was a super fuckin' tall chick that he was gonna have to get used to working with in the next- well, however long he worked here.

"Excuse me," a shrill voice interjected. He raised an eyebrow at the woman in front of him with her hot pink claws tapping vigorously on the ordering counter. A regular bitch if looks said anything about her. "I ordered a cheeseburger with a dollop of mayonnaise, not an ocean of mayo with a side of cheeseburger!" She shook the cheeseburger at him for good measure. He sighed.

"Ma'am, if you wanted a good meal, you should have gone to Olive Garden."

"Don't get smart with me!" she screeched.

"Ma'am, I'm never smart. Period. If I had any brains, do you honestly think I'd be working here?" He thought that was pretty clever, but she was obviously not amused. I swear, if the next words out of her mouth have anything to do with my manager-

"Fix. It," she hissed, plopping the squished mess that once resembled a cheeseburger on the counter. He sighed, taking it into the back and putting it in his lunch sack for later.

"Karen alert," he told Deb as he passed. She chuckled.

"Okay, order?"

"Just a #3. And be sure to put no mayo on it at all." Deb nodded.

"Aye aye."

This was his life now. Like it or not, Grif had left Blood Gulch and under the alias of Dennis Groff (the name 'Dexter Grif' still being associated with the 'murderous' Reds and Blues), Dexter was content, at least, to half-ass it for the rest of his life.

Or so he thought.


End file.
